


Rewards Program (AKA The Self-Indulgent Fabric Store AU Ventfic)

by ghostflusters



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fabric Store, Fireable Offenses, M/M, Museums, Puppets, Slow Burn, Taxidermy, workplace hazards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostflusters/pseuds/ghostflusters
Summary: Dirk is a fabric store manager. One day a customer catches his eye, but the handsome stranger seems reluctant to discuss his project. Dirk’s curiosity slowly progresses into something else, and despite Jake’s shyness, perhaps the feeling is mutual.
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	1. Personal Question

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day! This is my first fic on this platform, and my first in a long time, so please be patient with me. I might have some trouble with formatting, and I’m feeling a bit rusty. I hope you enjoy! Please don’t hesitate to leave commentary. I’d be absolutely thrilled to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Tags and characters may be added in the future as the fic goes on.

You’re so sick of this.

You’re sick of the fast pace that reduces your focus time to minutes on activities that you used to spend hours on. You’re sick of the stress of people nagging and berating you because their coupons don’t work or you’re sold out of something again. You’re sick of the fact that you have to tag out your workers sometimes because some man is being creepy and you’d rather intimidate them than your employees feel uncomfortable. You can be rather intimidating.

But sometimes you love it. Many of those times are when you get to the register and go home with two-hundred dollars worth of felt for forty-eight dollars. Some of them are when you help an old lady choose just the thing to back the quilt she’s making of her late son’s shirts for her great-granddaughter, and she thanks you graciously for your time. And yet others of those times are when a Ms. Grump requests the manager and you get to tell her, “I _am_ the manager.”

You run a chain fabric and craft store, and as long as everybody does their jobs, it’s really not that hard. Sometimes, you have tons of paperwork and meetings, sometimes it is difficult to put out everything the truck brings you, and you work long hours on weird days, but you get to make the schedule, so it’s not so bad. Your employees don’t all like you that much, and maybe your customer service isn’t the best, but you understand all the policies and procedures, and you’re pretty good at training people, and you’re great with numbers, and you know fabric.

The regulars mostly adore you. They’re pleased as punch, once they get over the initial surprise, that a man is running a fabric store, and that he actually knows what he’s doing when he’s cutting and teaching the customers, and isn’t just all business. It’s weird, but flattering, how they all seem to be rather charmed with you, even when you think you’re being a dick (and when you don’t realize you are until later). You can’t help but wonder if it would be any different if they knew how very not straight you are.

It’s a Sunday, and it’s unusually busy. You’ve been running back and forth all day between the register and the cutting counter, forced to ignore all the nonsense you have to do to get ready for the truck tomorrow. As you’re ringing out people who are about to leave, you are also greeting people who are just coming into the store as much as you can. You don’t see a lot of guys come in here without their wives or girlfriends, so when you see a broad, lone brunette fellow enter the shop, you notice him, even though you don’t get a good look at him. You note to yourself he doesn’t have a bag or a big jacket, as a shoplifter might, so you don’t pay him too much mind.

As soon as your line dies at the register, you’re called back again to the cutting counter, and there he is, huge arms full of faux fur and batting. Damn he’s gorgeous. His nose twitches as a tuft of fur floats before his face and he tries not to sneeze. He dumps his fabrics onto the counter unceremoniously, and when you ask him how much he needs, he seems unsure. Great. “Show me a foot? Okay, that’s not right… Half a yard? Not quite… Five-eighths?” His accent is peculiar, a bit difficult to place, and definitely not from around here.

“What are you making? Maybe I can help?” you offer. You’re not supposed to give estimates. Whatever. He’s being pretty nice. It’s not like he’s demanding you just know how big his sofa cushions are, like some people do.

“Oh, nothing.” You can’t tell if he seems bashful or just dismissive. “Give me five-eighths of each, and three yards of batting.” You tell him the price, almost expecting him to go back to half-yards, because this stuff is expensive. “That’s fine.” You’re pleasantly surprised by how agreeable he sounds. You prepare the fabric, which in this case means notching the edge and tearing it straight down the grain. “I apologize,” he says, the timbre of his voice like velvet to your ears. “I’m more familiar with metric.” He smiles shyly, and it’s kind of endearingly dorky in contrast to his broad stature.

You nod. That makes sense. It’s not really a clue about his accent though, since pretty much the whole rest of the world uses metric. You ask if he gets the store’s coupons, and when he says he doesn’t, you help him get the smartphone app, which takes a few minutes. The next person in line is practically tapping her foot, so you start her fabric while the man lingers off to the side and prompts you for help at intervals.

After a handful more customers, you’re called back to the register again. “Fancy meeting you here!” says the attractive stranger softly as he approaches you. You smile back at him slightly. You’ve been told you don’t smile enough. After you ring up all his discounts, his expression blooms into delight, his intensely green eyes crinkling at the corners. “Stupendous! What’s your name, sir?” You tell him. “Dirk! You’ve been terribly helpful, my friend. Thank you.” He shakes your hand. “I’m Jake. Pleasure doing business with you.”

And just like that, he’s out the door. What a surreal experience. Why did he introduce himself?

He comes through a couple more times in the coming days, uneventfully, while you’re busy doing other stuff. You notice him, but you try not to be too obviously attentive as he is helped by your other team members. You kind of do want to watch him, though.

You still don’t know what he could be doing with all this stuff: leather, wire, thread, plastic canvas, paperclay, polymer clay, all kinds of foam, glitter, and of course the faux fur and batting. It just won’t add up. The only thing that makes sense right now is fursuits. You suppose he might be embarrassed about that and not want to tell you, but you’re also not sure he seems like the type. Is there a furry type? Would you care? You wonder if he’s single. You hope he’s not secretly a creep.

“Gotta be a furry,” asserts your brother. You had described the guy’s purchases, because it’s just plain bugging you. The things people buy do not always go together, but usually you can see some kind of connection. Maybe there are a billion disparate things, but if there is some kind of a color palette, then maybe they’re designing a couture piece or decorating their home. Despite this reasoning, the only common thread you can come up with is that the bulk of the purchases are faux fur.


	2. Impulse Buy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk sustains a workplace injury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this fic long before posting, and I decided on a lot of the later events far in advance, but these development chapters were a big gap. For that reason there might be shorter chapters in the beginning, and they might get longer as the plot advances. Thanks for your patience! I truly appreciate you for reading and taking the energy to comment and give kudos.

It’s a handful of weeks before Jake visits your store again. Once again, he meets you at the fabric counter, arms laden with bolts of fur.

You’re lingering at the counter in case there are customers as you prepare for closing, while Roxy walks through the store putting away fabric and cleaning. It’s a Thursday, so it was a little busy this evening as you’re approaching the weekend, and Roxy will be away for a few more minutes unless you call them up.

“Hey,” you greet Jake as he slides his prizes onto the counter. “What can I do for you?”

“Just half-yards today, if you please!” he responds cheerfully.

You run your hands over the plush fabric as you unroll it, admiring its wolf-like color pattern. You measure and snip the edge, and begin to tear, kicking up little fibers into the air. Now is your chance to ask him. “I know you didn’t really want to talk about it last time we spoke, but I really am curious what sort of stuff you make. I like working with fur, personally, although I haven’t a whole lot. Nothing this nice, that’s for sure.”

He meets your eyes again from wherever he was looking before — your arms? — and seems to perk up. “Oh, you have some experience with it? Well that’s just dandy!” He thinks for a moment, fingers toying with the fabric of his over-shirt. “Well, I...” He seems unsure how to answer your question, and you chuckle gently.

“It’s complicated?” you ask.

He nods. “Why yes.” He watches while you tear off another piece of faux fur. This one is solid brown and a little shorter pile. His voice is tentative when he speaks again. “If you don’t mind my asking... what is it _you_ make with fur?”

You shrug. You don’t like to talk yourself up much at work, but people do ask about you from time to time. “I make plush toys, and sorta puppets.”

He looks surprised. “Puppets?”

“Yeah. Kinda like the Muppets I guess. I’ve always been a big Jim Henson fan. I like practical effects.”

“Wow.” His voice genuinely holds a sense of awe. You’re surprised, and flattered. “I love cinema,” he continues. “I can agree with you about the practical effects. I mean, I like all of it.”

You try not to think too hard about his eyes on your arms, and about his voice. “Cool.” There’s a bit of a lull between you, but you don’t notice whether it’s particularly awkward through the loud, satisfying _rip_ of the fabric. Soon you’re printing his cutting slip and tucking it into the stack. “I hope you have a nice night,” you tell him.

Jake smiles and takes the fabric. “You too, Dirk. Thank you!” He heads off and begins to meander through some other aisles. You hear him sneeze from the floating hairs.

You take a deep breath and continue on your mission of recording the sold-through bolts for the day, leaning over the counter to handwrite the product details. Now and then you pause to roll your wrist with a little _snap._ You were pretty sure no one else was in the store before Jake, but you get the feeling that someone is nearby. You don’t dwell on it though, because you have closing duties to do.

Part of your tasks is labeling remnants, and in this case you have one with a stain, so you lay out the piece of cloth to cut that portion away from the sellable part. You pick up your favorite shears; they’re bigger than all the rest and dangerously sharp, but they get the job done without straining your wrist as badly. On top of sewing, drawing, handwriting, typing, smartphone usage, puppeteering, music mixing, and sword practice, you need all the help you can get. You begin to cut, deep in thought about nothing in particular but maybe Jake’s voice, and—

“Oh Dirk!” calls the man of the hour.

 _Fuck,_ you cut right into the pad of your thumb when you jump at the sound.

“Oh my, I’m terribly sorry! Are you quite all right?” Jake really does look guilty.

“I’m fine,” you lie, trying not to wince so you don’t have to make him feel worse. “What did you need?”

“Ah, well, I was just wondering,” he begins clumsily, “well, I’ve done a bit of research because I bungled my first project a bit, and I wanted to ask you what is your favored manner in which to cut the fur?”

You snatch a tissue and try to hide your hand under the counter. You’re pretty sure you’re bleeding. You’re not sure if he saw. Shit. How embarrassing. “Oh, yeah. I like to trace my pattern markings onto the back and then cut with a knife in short strokes so I don’t lose fur. Gotta be careful to, uh...” You try not to blush furiously in your mortification. “... to not stab yourself though.”

“Ah! I see.” Seems like this answer is good enough for him. “Are you quite sure you’re all right?”

“I’m sure. Sorry. It’s uh...” You chuckle a little. “Just a flesh wound.”

Jake frowns. “Sorry, again.”

You shrug. “No big deal. I’d better go wash it. You take care.”

“You, too,” he responds with a morose nod, and you duck away to the break room.

While you’re in there washing your hands, you take a moment to steady yourself and let Roxy know over your radio that you’re away from the counter so she can keep an eye out. You add not to touch the fabric remnant that is out on the counter, just in case you got some blood on it, though you don’t think you did.

This isn’t the first time you’ve injured yourself like this, but it doesn’t usually happen at work, so you’re feeling a little shaken just because you weren’t expecting it. It’s sure to leave a nice little scar alongside all the others from small nicks and sword injuries. After bandaging the cut, you take a drink of water and then open the door to head back out to the sales floor, and —

There’s Jake again, looking as apologetic as a kicked puppy. In one hand at his side is his shopping bag of purchases, and in the other, held out toward you in offering, is a candy bar. You don’t have time to ask.

“Dirk, please take this as my apology. I... know it sounds corny, but nothing heals the shock from a wound like a little chocolate.”

You just kind of stare at him for a moment, letting his syrupy-sweet words roll around in your thick skull like molasses. Well, he’s got your attention now anyway.

You take the candy bar. “You, uh... You didn’t have to do that. Thank you.”

Jake watches your hand as you reach out and draw back, as if wanting to inspect your bandage job. He fidgets, just for a moment. “It’s nothing. Please enjoy it.”

You nod, and after a moment you chuckle. It’s just nerves. “I will.”

Roxy announces that the store is closing, and Jake nods and walks toward the door, his boots dully thumping all the way. It’s hard for you to tell on his deep olive skin through your shades, but you think he might be blushing too.

You walk to the front and wish him a good night once more, and lock the door behind him.

Roxy comes toward you, a conspiratory expression on their face. You feel a little defensive. “What?”

“I think he likes you,” says Roxy. Nepeta giggles from the register nearby.

You keep your voice serious. “Why on Earth would you say that?”

“Um, because he bought you chocolate!” cries Nepeta.

Roxy nods. “And because he was lookin’ at your ass while you were doing the write-offs.”

You can’t keep the surprise from your voice as you bristle defensively. _“What!”_ You hadn’t realized that might be happening, but you do remember sensing someone was near. You move away from the door with a shopping cart and roll your eyes, trying to brush it off as you collect the money trays to take to the safe. “He bought me chocolate to apologize for making me cut myself.”

“And if you hadn’t thought he was cute,” Roxy leads you, “would you have taken it?”

You grumble, “Probably not.”

“Do you want me to tell him?” Roxy always sounds like they’re at a slumber party playing truth-or-dare.

You take a breath to collect yourself. Then very sternly, you tell them in no uncertain terms, _”I want you to tell no one.”_


End file.
